Page 38 of Spread Me
The hand stills. The coyote-mouth drops open, revealing small, pointed teeth. “What’s wrong?” Mads’s voice says from somewhere behind those teeth. It’s a near-perfect imitation now, all the rough edges nearly gone.
“You have to stop this. All of this,” Kinsey says. Her eyes fill with desperate tears. “You can’t keep killing my colleagues—myfriends. Please. You can’t keep killing them. I’m—I’m begging you.”
The specimen takes a moment to answer. “Okay,” it says at last. “But… do you have any friends left?”
“Nkrumah. And Jacques,” she says without hesitation. “It’s not too late for them, is it?”
It doesn’t answer.
“Is it?!”
The specimen’s head tilts to one side, considering. Then, after a moment, its hand starts to slowly shift between its legs again. “Hard to say,” it says in a low purr. “How bad do you want to know?”
Kinsey looks away, swallows hard around the painful lump in her throat. The part of her that wants the virus is drowned beneath the horror of watching this creature violate what it’s made of her friend’s body. The nausea that rises in her is an immense relief. Finally,finally,she can feel something as simple as disgust.
“This isn’t a game,” she says weakly. The thing that looks like Mads is panting now, breathless. “I’m not bargaining with you. Just tell me if they’re still alive. Please.”
The creature lets out a groan. Kinsey doesn’t wait to see if it’s a groan of frustration or of satisfaction. She forces herself to her feet and stumbles on half-numb legs through the door, yelling Nkrumah’s name.
She prays there’s anyone left at the station who can hear her.
Domino is unpacking. They’re nearly done. They pull a shirt and a pair of scissors out of the bottom of their duffel. The shirt is pink. They slip it on and start cutting it across the belly to make it a crop top.
“What does that say?” Kinsey asks from her seat on the second bed in their room. “Is that a baseball team or—” She stops short as she makes sense of the cursive letters across the chest.
“It saysBaby Slut,” Domino replies, their voice slightly muffled as they bow their neck to get a better view of the scissors.
A laugh startles out of Kinsey without her permission. “What the fuck?” she breathes. “Why?!”
“It’s a joke from, um.” They snip off a loose curl of cotton. “From online. About Kurt Russell inThe—”
Jacques appears in the door to Domino’s room. “Careful,” he warns. “She’ll make you put cash in the jar.”
Domino looks up. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Domino. What’s the jar?”
“Jacques. The jar is Kinsey’s cruel punishment to prevent us from having fun while we’re here. Nice shirt,” he adds, looking Domino up and down.
“I don’t see what this shirt has to do with the jar,” Kinsey insists. “But either way, it’s definitely not laborfield appropriate. Have fun wearing it in your room and the canteen, I guess.”
Domino finishes cutting off the bottom half of the shirt and grins up at her. “Sure thing, Boss. Whatever you say.”
Kinsey slams the door to Mads’s room behind her. The hallway is half-dark. In the bathroom at the far end of the hall, the always-on fluorescents buzz. The walls creak under the onslaught of the still-raging sandstorm. She runs, her bare feet skidding on the linoleum as she hurls herself toward Nkrumah’s room. She slips on a drift of sand, nearly falls, catches herself. Doesn’t look back.
“Nkrumah!” She slaps her palms against the thin particleboard of Nkrumah’s door. “Nkrumah, wake up!”
“I’m awake,” Nkrumah calls from inside.
Kinsey looks over her shoulder, sees the shadow of the Mads-specimen-creature at the other end of the hall. It’s on all fours, silhouetted by the light from the bathroom. She can’t see its face but she knows it’s looking at her. She always knows when it’s looking at her.
“Let me in,” she yells. “Let me in right now!”
The reply from inside is a purr. “It’s not locked.”
Kinsey freezes with her hand halfway to the knob. There was no impatience in Nkrumah’s voice, no snap, no bite. Something’s wrong.
“Kinsey?” Nkrumah calls again from inside the room. “Are you coming in?”
Kinsey takes a step backward. A lamp-click from inside the bedroom, a spill of buttery light through the crack under the closed door. She glances down the hall, catches the shape of the creature out of the corner of her eye—it hasn’t moved, hasn’t chased her. She’s going to run, she’s already decided. Nkrumah is a lost cause, but Jacques—maybe Jacques is still safe. She’s going to sprint for the Jeep and scoop up Jacques on her way, and the two of them will get as far from the station as possible before sounding the alarm. Maybe the two of them can make it out of this.
